


Merry and Bright

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gen, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, fill extravaganza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-10 22:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12921300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: A collection of tumblr ask box fills for Kingsman, Christmas-style. Mostly Merlahad/Percilot, but there might be some gen in there as we move through the holiday season. (Tumblr is eating my fills so I'm gonna post them here, too.)





	1. The Jumper Incident (Percilot, pre TSS)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My mom knitted you a jumper." for Percilot.

**_[December 2012]_ **

“Absolutely not,” Martin said. His jaw tensed, the muscle jumping as he gave James the flattest, most unimpressed look he could possibly imagine. James immediately went full wheedle, poking his lower lip out at his partner.

“Oh, but darling, Mummy worked so  _hard_  on these,” he said. “Just humor her, all right? She wants you to feel like you’re a part of the family.”

“After what your father said at last Sunday’s dinner, I’m not terribly inclined to be a part of—” Martin cut himself off, inhaling sharply as James’s face morphed from pleading to hurt in seconds. “All right,  _all right_. For one dinner.”

Martin picked up the jumper out of the wrapping paper, unfolding it with a grimace.

“Oh, don’t act that way, Prickly Pear,” James said, kissing his temple. “You’ll look dashing.”

* * *

The mood at Spencer Manor (the affectionate nickname for the sprawling house just outside of Nottingham) was decidedly boisterous this close to Christmas, and Roxy endured the hugs and kisses from great-aunts and uncles. This year was going to be almost as tiresome as the last, but she put on a happy face, greeting cousins and distant relations.

She was a woman grown, after all, and now would come the questions. Was she going to Cambridge, would she marry soon, was she seeing anyone at all?

Luckily, the questions didn’t come as quickly as she anticipated, and she soon homed in on why: as she passed the drawing room, she saw her Uncle Martin standing next to the fireplace, a glass of eggnog in hand, his arms crossed over the jumper he was wearing. It was rare enough for Uncle Martin to make an appearance, but for him to be wearing one of the jumpers Grandmama made, well…

This called for a celebration, indeed. While the rest of him was dressed in classic Gainsborough style, Roxy definitely recognized the handiwork of the slightly lumpy jumper that Martin wore. He’d tried to match it with a shirt and tie, but he still looked so out of place she almost laughed. Instead, she thought she should commiserate with him a bit.

Roxy slipped into the room, smiling as Martin’s head turned towards her. She watched him relax, just a fraction, his shoulders losing their rigidity and the severe line around his mouth softening as he nodded to her.

“Hello, Roxanne,” he said. He accepted her embrace, wrapping an arm around his favorite niece (she’d argued that she was his only niece, but that had gotten her nowhere). “Here for dinner?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said, beaming up at him. “I’m glad to see you.”

“James bullied me into going.” Martin didn’t sound pleased by the prospect.

“Has Grandmama seen you yet?” she asked.

“Lord, I hope not,” Martin said. He glanced about, a hunted look in his eyes. “Though they might have narrowed the search. You won’t reveal my position, will you?”

She gave him a jaunty little salute, the corners of her pert little mouth turned up in patent Spencer mischief. “Of course not, Uncle. You’ll be coming to table, I’m assuming.”

“If I could figure out a way to get around that without disappointing James, I might,” Martin said. Still, he straightened the jumper, looking distinctly out of his element. Then again, Martin could possibly patent the number of expressions he wore when he was uncomfortable, in Roxy’s opinion. “But yes, I’ll be at the table when we sit down to eat.”

“Good!” she said. She stood on tiptoe, brushing a kiss against his cheekbone, and sauntered out of the room. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

It was hardly a surprise when James’s mother found him. Martin was sure that the delighted shriek she let out was heard at least in London. He—just barely—managed to suppress his wince at the sound, turning to her with what he hoped was a neutral expression.

James’s mother was a handsome woman with her iron grey hair done up in a bun behind her head. She dressed well, her green dress embroidered with hints of ivy in a darker green thread that caught the light of the hallway. But then, Minerva Spencer wasn’t one to do things by halves, like the rest of her bloodline. She also bore that same mischievous light in her blue eyes that made Martin both love and want to smack his own partner.

The matriarch of the Spencer clan insisted everyone call her Minnie at the least and for Martin specifically she’d demanded he call her ‘Mummy’ as well. Though he’d avoided any gaffes there, it was still beyond him to refer to her as anything but ‘madam’, or ‘Mrs. Spencer’. Still, she seemed genuinely happy to see him.

“Martin, darling, there you are!” She beamed up at him, crossing the room and enveloping him in a hug that smelled of spruce and powder. He was stiff, and awkward, but he remembered the promise he made to James and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “How are you, my lovely boy?”

“Well, madam,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been well.”

“Good, good. Oh, I see you’re wearing the jumper I made! Do you like it?”

Martin inhaled, ready to tell the truth—

And stopped.

A little voice inside his head reminded him why he was here, and telling her the truth would only crush her feelings and hurt James. It advised him to rethink his answer and use some tact.

Not surprising (to Martin, at least) that voice sounded an awful lot like Harry Hart.

“It’s nice,” he said through what he hoped wasn’t a grit-toothed smile. “Thank you, for the gift.”

“Of course, dear boy,” she said, reaching up and patting his cheek fondly. “I want you to feel like a part of the family.”

“That’s what James said,” Martin replied, bearing with her mothering for as long as he felt he could allow.

“Well, it’s the truth,” she asserted, finally stepping back and out of Martin’s personal space. “Speaking of which, where  _is_  my son?”

“Right here, Mummy,” James replied, strolling through the door with a glass of fine whisky in hand with the same impeccable timing he usually had when someone was talking about him. He leaned down, brushing his lips against her cheek, and she pinched his in return before he straightened to his full height and grinned at his partner. “There you are, Darling. Enjoying yourself?”

“Of course,” Martin said. He’d promised, after all.

“James, you’re a scoundrel,” Minnie scolded him. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Martin asked.

“Why, your jumper,” Minnie replied. “I made you a plain one, so as not to embarrass you. That one is for James.”

Martin looked down at the jumper, grey with pink accents and hand knit with the phrase  _I’m a luxury few can afford_ —and then slowly raised his eyes to James’s. His partner tried to avoid his gaze, but Martin caught and held it.

Martin mouthed his words, careful to do so when Minnie’s back was turned.

_I’ll kill you._

James was well-versed enough in lip-reading to understand him. His partner went pale, sipping his drink nervously. “Well, Mummy, our packages must have gotten swapped. I’m sure—”

And James was gone, ushering Minnie out of the room and chattering to her while throwing a nervous look over his shoulder at Martin’s silent fury.

Martin finished his drink and stalked to the car, where thankfully he had a proper sweater in the boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, since that hellsite seems to be eating my work in the tags, I'm gonna just...post fills here. These are for the Christmas persuasion. Feel free to come by and drop me [prompts](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/post/168152720347/nadiahilker-im-always-a-slut-for-a-christmas), I'm still writing!


	2. Warmth (Merlahad, Hogwarts AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts is home for the holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I knitted you a jumper" for Merlahad.

**[The Room of Requirement, Hogwarts – 1974]**

“I knitted you a jumper,” Harry said. The Gryffindor’s voice startled Merlin from where he was working, making him drop the bottle of newt essence he was working with over his small cauldron. Merlin yelped, but Harry snagged the bottle with a speed and accuracy that made Merlin think twice about Harry being best suited to being a chaser.

He only parsed the sentence after fumbling the bottle away from Harry and setting it safely to the side. He blinked, turning back to where the other boy was standing, a lumpy parcel in hand.

“What, now?” Merlin asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.

“A jumper,” Harry said. He held out the package to Merlin, and Merlin took it. “I, uh, made it. I wanted to try my hand at it.”

“Oh,” Merlin said. “Well, thank you, Harry.”

He put the implication of that out of his mind immediately; likely Harry had made one for Martin and James as well, but as the two weren’t here right now, there was no reason for him to jump to conclusions there.

He set his fingers to the knotted ribbon holding the package, undoing the almost clumsy wrapping. He wondered why Harry didn’t just get someone to do it for him, and the thought occurred to him that Harry might have wanted to do this himself. And so, he was careful, unwinding most of the knot before getting to a point he simply couldn’t undo by hand. After carefully slicing open the ribbon, Merlin pulled the jumper free of its paper wrapping. It was soft; his first impression was that this wasn’t the regular coarse wool he was used to getting in the care packages the orphans got.

He actually did bring the jumper to his cheek and press it against his jaw for a moment, closing his eyes. It was dyed a deep, dark blue, and it smelled like rich coffee, hazelnuts, and something woodsy and masculine. No doubt Harry had worked on it after supper, when he would excuse himself to the Gryffindor tower.

He opened his eyes to find Harry watching him, an expression of uncertainty flickering across his face as he nibbled his lower lip. Merlin flushed, clearing his throat.

“It’s…really nice,” Merlin said. “I’ve never gotten a gift made for me before.”

“Then I’m your first,” Harry declared, with some satisfaction. He seemed to realize the faux pas moments later, and they both looked away for a moment. “I—I mean, the first to make you something.”

“Of course,” Merlin said. “Thank you again.”

He unfolded it, seeing the blue overlaid with a silver triangle pattern where the jumper would sit on his chest; the simple geometric pattern wasn’t anything to boast about but it was still fancy enough that Merlin could appreciate the bravery in swapping colors like that. He stood, pulling off his robe and tugging his worn jumper over his head. As he pulled the new one on over his head, he glanced up at Harry, who was still watching him, eyes round with delight that Merlin would try it on immediately.

It was a little tight in the chest, but that was okay. It was loose in the waist so that it bunched funny on his middle, but that was okay, too. It was the thought that counted, Merlin decided…until he tugged on the sleeves and realized that the left was about three inches shorter than the right.

Harry frowned. “I thought I’d fixed that.”

“It’s okay,” Merlin reassured him. “It’s still a lovely jumper.”

“It’s nice of you to say that,” Harry said, frowning harder. “I can’t believe I messed that up, I could have sworn—”

Merlin just rolled both sleeves to his elbows, putting his hands on his hips. “There. I fixed it.”

Harry made a noise between a sigh and a despairing chuckle. “You’re just being nice. If you give it here, I’ll scrap it and—”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Merlin huffed, folding his arms. “It’s my jumper, I’m wearing it.”

“You look silly,” Harry said.

“So? It’s my choice to look silly. You made me something, and you didn’t have to, and so I’m going to wear it.” Merlin’s stubbornness was winning out, now. “I don’t want to give it back.”

His argument died when Harry reached out and hugged him, hard. He realized the jumper smelled like Harry, who had wrapped his arms around him like he was afraid to let him go. Merlin melted into the touch, just a little bit, the coal he kept hidden in his chest roaring to life as Harry buried his nose in Merlin’s shoulder.

He brought his hands up, circling his own arms around Harry, letting his hands fall into place along the other boy’s spine. Like he’d imagined, they fit together, not perfectly but still with a rightness that made Merlin sigh out softly.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

“Whatever for?” Merlin wondered aloud, pressing his cheek to Harry’s soft curls briefly. He could get away with that, he felt.

“For being my best friend,” Harry said. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Merlin. I’m glad I came to Hogwarts.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” Merlin said softly. He felt warm, inside and out. It didn’t even matter that Harry would never return that level of affection with him. Harry was his best friend, and that counted for so many good things in Callum’s life that he simply didn’t care in that moment. He squeezed Harry hard and stepped back, grinning at him. “I bet James and Martin’s fit the same anyway.”

“Hm?” Harry said. “ _Oh_. Uh. I didn’t make them jumpers.”

“You didn’t?” Merlin said, pressing a hand to the soft wool on his chest.

“No,” Harry said. He shrugged. “I got them other things, but I wanted to make you something special.”

“Well, now I’m definitely not giving it back,” Merlin teased. “When you’re a famous Quidditch player, I’ll make you sign it.”

“With pleasure,” Harry said, his grin widening. “ _To my biggest fan._ ”

“Of course,” Merlin said. “You want to play some chess?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said.

Merlin was pleased to find the jumper was just as warm as promised. But maybe the warmth was Harry’s knee bumping his as they set the board. Either way, he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Hogwarts is always really fun to imagine. I live for warm fireplaces and hot drinks.


	3. Tangled (Unspecified AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's dog is usually so much better behaved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> costofthecrown asked: Harry and Merlin's kids each ask Santa to get their parents together!!!

It really wasn’t Harry’s fault. Mister Pickle was usually so well behaved, it was a surprise to Harry when the little dog tugged the lead from his fingers and took off. Harry gave chase, his heart in his throat.

He’d just been here for pictures. That was all. His mother had insisted that he get photos done for Christmas, and to ‘bring his sweetheart as well’. His mother’s hinting that she wanted grandchildren soon…well, that was a little more apt to stick in Harry’s craw.

So he’d done what he’d always done when she insisted she wanted a ‘family’ portrait. He, as a single man in his mid-thirties, dressed his little cairn terrier in his best tartan Christmas sweater, donned his own nicest winter suit, and went to the local pet shop, where there was an option for pet owners to get a photo done with Santa.

Now, however, he’d lost his place in line and his dog had disappeared between the multitudes of shoppers’ legs. He whistled, but he was sure it was lost in the drone of talking and the Christmas music being piped over the loudspeakers.

Despairing, he rounded the corner, only to find a man kneeling, stroking Mister Pickle and talking to him in a soft voice. Harry skidded to a stop, and the man looked up, catching Harry with the most piercing hazel eyes he’d ever seen. A strong, angular jaw and those eyes set under heavy brows made him instantly appealing to the baser part of Harry’s nature, and he immediately stamped on that. The man petting Mister Pickle had caused the terrier’s tail to go a mile a minute, and the little traitor was washing his fingers with his tongue as though he was an old friend.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Harry began. “I’m afraid he quite got away from me.”

“It’s no trouble,” the man said. His soft brogue washed over Harry, hitting him like a punch to the chest combined with the shy smile the man gave him. “He’s a friendly little chap, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s not normally like this,” Harry said, casting a glance at Mister Pickle. “I—oh!”

Two large Dobermans had taken point beside the man kneeling, and both were watching him. After a moment, however, they moved forward, nudging his hands in greeting.

“Artemis, Apollo, mind your manners,” the man warned, and the two dogs sat pretty at Harry’s feet, blinking up at him with soft brown eyes.

Harry ran his hands over their sleek heads in turn, smiling down at the well-behaved animals. “They’re lovely.”

“They’re a handful,” the man said, but the fondness in his voice belied his words, as did the soft smile he got when talking about the dogs. “Yours is a lovely lad.”

“He’s normally much better behaved,” Harry said. Mister Pickle didn’t seem concerned with his censure, sitting at the man’s feet. It was a though the gentleman had a way with animals. Not just his own, but Harry’s too.

Harry swallowed hard when he rose, though. He had long legs that seemed to go on forever clad in sleek looking wool trousers, combined with a solid waist and chest that were concealed beneath a green jumper and a tartan field jacket. He was tall, straightening up bringing him to Harry’s height. Harry realized his head was shaved, the bare edges of his scalp peeking out from under the grey newsboy he wore.

It painted a very masculine picture, one that Harry approved of. It was a little hard to breathe as he realized that this man was exactly his type and he probably looked like a slack-jawed fool in the middle of Christmas shoppers attempting to get their last purchases in.

“Callum Craig,” the man said, holding out a hand. Harry took it, shaking almost as a reflex, and noticed that the man had lovely hands. Strong, with long, clever fingers, his grip was firm but not overbearing.

“Harry Hart,” he said, faintly, remembering his manners.

“A pleasure,” Callum said, and it seemed that it was, with the way he smiled at him. “Were you here for food too?”

Harry looked around, startled. He realized that he’d wandered into the dog food aisle whilst chasing his wayward animal, and he gave an almost sheepish shake of his head.

“Er, no. I was…in the line for photos and…” The line. He’d completely forgotten. “I need to get back before they close.”

“Don’t let me keep you, then,” Callum said, lifting Mister Pickle and handing him over so that Harry could get a good grip on his leash. “Happy Christmas, Mister Hart.”

“Harry,” he blurted, and then fled.

* * *

He’d made it just in time, finding himself the last in line before the photo booth closed for the day. He got his photos done, buying enough to keep his mum happy—though eternally rolling her eyes at his insistence that Mister Pickle was the closest to a grandchild she was going to get. He bought a treat as a reward for the little terrier, and had just stepped out into the chill air before he realized that it was snowing. Fat flakes landed on his coat and he sighed, realizing that walking home in this would be a bother.

“Happy Christmas, eh, Mister Pickle?” he asked, looking down at his companion. Mister Pickle did a couple of turns in the falling snow, snuffling at the flakes.

“Mister Hart!” the call made him look up, and he spotted a dark blue SUV parked across the way. Callum Craig was leaning against it, and he waved.

Harry’s breath caught. He’d thought this a one-time encounter, and certainly hadn’t prepared himself for meeting the handsome stranger again. Callum crossed the road, hands in his pockets, and came to a stop before him.

“I was wondering…” Callum said, clearing his throat. “Now that your pictures are done with, do you have any plans?”

“Er, no,” Harry said. “Mostly supper with Mister Pickle and perhaps a movie by the fire.”

“Would you…like to have supper with us?” Callum asked. He ducked his head, as though he were put off by his own boldness. “I just—you seem like a nice man and I don’t know anything about you—but I’d like to? Please don’t think you have to.”

“This seems out of the blue,” Harry blurted.

“I know it does,” Callum said. “But I wanted to extend the invitation anyway. You seemed like you were here alone, and no one should be alone on Christmas, Mister Hart.”

“I…would like that very much,” Harry said. “But only if you call me Harry.”

“Callum,” he replied, smiling widely. “Come on, let’s get in out of the snow.”

Harry found he liked the idea very much as he and Mister Pickle fell into step with his handsome new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry is such a soft man without his Kingsman training. I think I'd like to explore that more, honestly.


	4. Home Alone (Pre-TSS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>         _Christmas eve will find me
>     Where the love light gleams
>     I'll be home for Christmas
>     If only in my dreams_
>       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bearfethers said: "there’s a storm and omg i’m losing signal are you okay?? hold on let me drive 489432 miles to get you the night before christmas" for Merlahad and Percilot.

**[London, Whitechapel – December 23 rd, 2008]**

“And there’s been no word since?” James asked, pouring Merlin another cup of tea.

“Not since the tower in Antwerp got swallowed by the snowstorm,” Merlin said. He frowned, putting his tablet to the side, only to snatch it up again, his fingers taking him in circles through maps and various satellite feeds. “He and Martin are going to have to wait until it clears on the twenty-sixth.”

They were ensconced in Merlin’s home as the snow fell, a flurry of white that was almost—but not quite—considered a blizzard. Not so for Harry and Martin, who had been on mission in Brussels. They’d been unable to finish up and get home before the snow started falling, and by the time they’d been ready to leave, they’d found almost all travel closed to them.

Airports were closed, the railways had been shut down by the flurries of snow that blanketed the tracks, and the roads were less than drivable. While there were crews trying to clear all of these methods of travel, it would still take a few days for traffic to resume as normal, meaning that Galahad and Percival were stuck.

So close, and yet so far, Merlin thought, frustrated as he pulled up yet another weather map. Less than an hour’s flight and they would still be grounded until after Christmas Day.

“They’ll miss Christmas,” James said, setting the mug by Merlin’s hand and flopping down onto the loveseat opposite. “The first time since…ever. I don’t think we’ve ever missed it before.”

“We haven’t,” Merlin agreed. “Not since we started inviting Martin when he became Percival.”

James sighed, rubbing his face. “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. Thank you, mother nature. I was looking forward to this.”

They had all been looking forward to this, though Merlin didn’t correct James while he was being dramatic. It would fall on deaf ears and Merlin would end up with a headache.

In truth, it was the one time of the year where Merlin, Harry, James and Martin felt free enough to be themselves. Most, if not all, missions were wrapped up by the twenty-second, God and Merlin willing, and they retired to someone’s flat (usually Merlin’s, as it was off the Kingsman grid) to make merry until Boxing Day. Often, Morgana would join them, sharing a drink by the fire, though not always staying until the wee hours, though Merlin always had a guest room for her if she did. She was delayed at the Estate for the evening, but she would be along soon.

They were all back to work on the twenty-seventh, and no one brought it up. They all had their own traditions to keep, after all.

Even Arthur seemed to be more than willing to look the other way, lest he get coal in his stocking. Either that or he was looking for enough evidence to make them call it quits. They’d never discussed their plans with him, however; foolish as that may be, their spymaster seemed less interested in their whereabouts for the holiday season.

For whatever reason, the four weren’t about to argue the point.

There was a knock on the door, and James hopped up to answer. Morgana bustled in, shaking snow off her woolen coat and tucking her umbrella in the rack by the door. She shivered, gratefully accepting the hot mug of tea that James fetched upon finishing helping her with her coat. She dipped over the back of the armchair, and Merlin leaned into the kiss she pressed to the top of his head.

“No word?” she asked.

Merlin shook his head. He had texted her as soon as he had news, and this was disappointing for all of them.

“None. Cell towers are down, and it’s hard to get a lock with the satellites. I advised them to get a hotel room and wait it out.” He sighed, taking a sip of his tea and putting his tablet down in disgust. “Shame, really.”

“Yes,” Morgana said. They hadn’t put up the tree yet, waiting for Harry and Martin’s return, as decorating was a family tradition—and there was no other way to put it. These people, both in this room and in Brussels, were his family. Merlin felt Harry’s absence, to be certain, as he was sure that James was feeling Martin’s, but it was also Martin’s absence that bothered Merlin as well. Two people he cared about were gone.

Not since 1997 had they failed to at least meet before Christmas Day.

The room was somber, the crackle of the fire and the soft music on the radio all that broke the silence for a long moment. The clock on the mantle read a quarter to eleven, and Merlin sighed, taking up his tablet again.

“Maybe we can call when the storm stops,” James suggested. “It won’t be opening gifts, but…”

“Maybe,” Merlin hedged. “I just wish I could get through.”

“I know,” James said. He took a seat beside Mags and sighed.

Merlin pulled up the satellite feeds and tried again.

* * *

The fire had died to embers, the three of them unwilling to go to bed and yet dozing all the same. Merlin curled up in the armchair, long legs thrown over the arm. James had accepted the role of Morgana’s pillow, the older woman sound asleep against James’s shoulder while the Knight had tucked himself into a corner of the couch and got comfortable. The only sound was the clock as it ticked into the deep watches of the night and the low snap of the slowly burning logs.

Christmas Eve was upon them, though it was still the early hours of the morning, not yet half-past four. Merlin roused himself, cramped from his spot on the chair, and rose. He put his hands to the small of his back, stretching. He winced at the popping in his back and shoulders, and collected their empty tea mugs to put in the sink.

The dogs were all sprawled across the living room, some on the couches, others on the rug before the fire. Merlin stepped around them almost as an afterthought, moving about his business. Apollo snored, laying on his back with his feet in the air. Merlin just shook his head with a smile.

Morgana and James got one of his quilts, neither of them stirring as he draped it over them. Though tired, Merlin was still restless, moving back into the kitchen.

He peered out the window, noting the pile of snow on the sill. Sighing, he rinsed the mugs in the sink and set them in the dishwasher for later. He leaned on the counter, barefoot and clad in nothing but soft sleep pants and a t-shirt, his home his sanctuary and his family the only ones to ever see him so dressed down.

The dogs stirred at the sound of keys in the lock. Merlin tensed, moving for the gun he kept in a slide out panel near the sink, his fingers shaking. No one had keys to his flat, save for Harry, James, and Martin. He didn’t even leave a spare set with Morgana, for safety reasons.

He padded towards the front door, flanked by James, who had somehow squirmed from beneath Morgana without waking her. While not armed in the traditional way, he had an iron for tending the fire in hand, and they took up positions right by the door from the entry hallway into the living room.

“Blasted snow, if I ever see it again I’ll take a flamethrower to it,” Harry said quietly as he entered, limping across the threshold. Martin followed in behind him, both of them shaking the snow off themselves at the door before stepping inside. “Though it keeps the swelling down.”

“Are you still cross about that?” Martin asked, removing his coat. This would be reassuring, if there wasn’t a tear down his suit’s right panel right through his undershirt and to the skin, showcasing a massive bruise along his ribs.

James made a soft noise of concern and the two men at the door turned, spotting Merlin and James staring at them in disbelief.

“Oh.” Harry glanced at Martin. “We woke them.”

“You didn’t,” Merlin said, setting the gun to the side as the dogs all bustled forward to greet the two. “But I _would_ like to know how the devil you got home when I told you to stay put.”

“Funny story, actually,” Harry said, swaying on his feet as he bent to run his hand over Artemis’s sleek head. Instead, he almost pitched over, and Merlin moved to catch him, hip bumping the dogs out of the way with practiced ease. “Well, not so much funny, as I told Martin that it was a terrible idea and he didn’t listen to me regardless.”

“I don’t recall telling you to get in the Cessna with me, Galahad,” Martin said, his tone waspish. “I simply said I was going home for Christmas and you climbed in.”

“You said you were also a better pilot than me,” Harry groused as he leaned heavily against Merlin’s shoulder. “A concussion and the wreckage of a Cessna on the Estate’s back lawn would say otherwise.”

“…you crashed a _plane_?” Morgana’s voice startled all four of them, making them turn to where she’s standing with the quilt wrapped around her. The tatty quilt might as well be a queen’s robe for the tone she’d taken. “All right, the both of you get in here.”

They all trooped into the living room, Morgana fishing out Merlin’s first aid bag from his panic closet beneath the stairs and setting it on the coffee table with a thump. Harry was the first to sit, dropping to the couch heavily with a wince and a muffled groan. Martin was next, his seat beside Harry no less labored, though he was quieter about it.

Merlin’s eyes were narrowed at the both of them, and he stood with arms folded, realizing that some of the effect was lost with him in just his pyjamas.

“Explain yourselves,” he said, staring down Galahad and Percival.

“I wasn’t about to spend Christmas alone with _Harry_ ,” Martin said, tilting his head as Morgana cleaned a cut on his forehead. She put a plaster on it and he winced.

Harry’s expression was positively venomous. “I’m sorry I’m such bad company, Percival.”

Martin rolled his eyes with a huff as he got out of his torn suit jacket and shirt, undoing his tie with clumsy fingers. James set to work building up the fire again and adding more logs before disappearing into the kitchen for tea.

“I only meant that I wasn’t about to spend it alone with _you_ because I could just as easily spend it with everyone _together_.” He yelped when Morgana prodded his side, then put the bell of a stethoscope to his chest to listen to his breathing. After listening for a moment, she nodded, pulling the eartips from her ears.

“Mm, bruised, but not broken.” She set to work, wrapping Martin’s side.

“And to do that, you crashed the plane,” Harry said.

“Oh, do shut up, Harry. I didn’t crash.”

“You did, Martin, I would know. I was _in the blasted plane_.”

“That’s the bump on your head warping your perception.”

“You mean the bump on my head from the _crash_?” Harry’s eyes were narrowed, and Merlin stepped over, running his fingers through Harry’s sandy hair. Sure enough, Harry had a goose-egg the size of a golf ball. Harry hissed and moved away from Merlin’s hands.

“I thought I told you to wait out the storm,” Merlin said, reminding them both that he was irritated at them.

Martin shrugged as his eyes followed the finger that Morgana was holding in front of his nose. “I weighed my options, considering your advice. Your advice lost. Besides, if I thought I would get us killed, I wouldn't have done it. Not to mention Harry agreed with me.”

"Harry would agree to a flying carpet if it meant getting back, you can't trust his judgement in that kind of situation." Merlin’s tone was flat, and he stared down Martin until the younger man dropped his eyes. “You know that. You tailored your argument around the fact that Harry is just as much of a risk taker as James when it comes to something important to him, like getting home on time.”

“I’m sorry, but have I missed something? Or is taking the piss out of me a new holiday tradition?” Harry asked, his voice querulous as Morgana turned her attention to him.

“Ooh, can we make it one?” James asked, returning from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea and mugs for everyone. Harry gave him the evil eye over Morgana’s shoulder. “I mean, it’s rather fun watching you swell like a toad sometimes.”

“Bugger off, James,” Harry snapped. Once Morgana had wrapped his head for him, he rose, moving to the armchair by the fire he’d claimed long ago. He crossed long legs at the knee and stared into the fire, his expression leaving no doubt that he was annoyed.

“All right, that’s enough, the three of you,” Morgana said. She put her hands on her hips and gave each of them a look, James earning one for winding Harry up more than necessary while she was trying to see to his injuries. “Harry, you and Martin have just been through something stressful, and will likely need to decompress. James, will you see to getting them a bite to eat?”

“Yes, mum,” James said, properly cowed in the face of Morgana’s stern orders. He disappeared back into the kitchen and she began cleaning up the mess from the first aid bag.

There was a beat of tense silence before Martin spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he said. Merlin frowned, watching Martin. “I just…didn’t want to spend Christmas alone again. I never celebrated it before Kingsman and—”

Harry lifted his head, turning his attention back to Martin, his mood easing just a bit.

“—and I promise that next time, I’ll stay put. If only because I don’t want you or James to worry.”

Merlin’s gaze softened. He often forgot that Martin was the youngest of them, headstrong and full of his own ideas about things that were incredibly different from Merlin’s own; somehow, they still arrived at the same conclusions, most of the time.

“But this is the one time of year that we can just…be,” he said. He made a frustrated gesture at the windows outside. “Without worrying about—all of that. So I don’t regret it, even though I’m sorry to have made you worry.”

“Mm,” Merlin said, knowing what Martin meant. “The gesture is appreciated, as is your apology, though I expect you to be the one to call in cleanup in the morning.”

“Of course,” Martin said. “I called two hours ago.”

“We were still in the air two hours ago,” Harry said, squinting at Martin.

“Well, yes, but I was also attempting to land a single-engine aircraft in a blizzard, Harry. I knew I wasn’t going to get away clean, and you’d already accepted the risks.” Martin raised his brows at Harry, and Harry huffed laughter, the sound rich over the noise of crackling logs in the fireplace.

“Touché,” Harry said. “All right.”

Merlin moved to Harry’s chair, leaning over and brushing his lips against Harry’s forehead. The tension eased out of him, the worried knot in his chest loosening with Morgana’s proclamation that they were just rattled. James came back from the kitchen with sandwiches, and Harry rose to join the others on the couch, his sulk well and truly broken.

Morgana put away the kit, then returned, wrapping the quilt about her again.

“I think that’s enough excitement for me this evening,” she said, giving them each another once-over. “Harry, you might feel nauseous, but you should be able to sleep without difficulty. Martin, you’ll want to rest for the next week or so. James, see that he doesn’t overexert himself.”

Her arch look said everything they needed to know about that. She brushed a kiss over Merlin’s cheek, then Harry’s forehead. Martin and James got the same treatment, and then Morgana retired, all eight dogs following her to the guest bedroom. Merlin chuckled as she kept the door cracked, so the dogs could leave if they needed.

He knew they wouldn’t. They loved her far too much for that.

Everything was right with the world again, save for explaining to Arthur how a plane ended up on the back lawn of the estate.

But that was a problem for the twenty-seventh, not Christmas Eve.

For now, he let Harry lean heavily into his side, his fingers rubbing the back of the Knight’s neck and avoiding the bump on his head. James was giving Martin similar treatment, having wrapped Martin in a quilt after getting him a spare t-shirt from the cases that James had packed in anticipation of their three-day weekend. He met Merlin’s eyes over the dark tousle of Martin’s head and smiled, just a twitch upward of his lips before he yawned.

“We should get to bed now,” Merlin murmured.

“Five more minutes,” Harry said, his voice slow and thick like he was on the edge of sleep.

“Ten,” Martin mumbled.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “You’re all children.”

Not that he’d change a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swiped shamelessly from Bearfeathers -- simply because the prompt reminded me of the conversation. Harry and Martin sniping at each other is allll their doing.


	5. ...Not So Much... (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mollywobble-s said: “’it’s a wonderful life’ aww it sounds so cute babe sure we can watch it! *30 mins later* “YOU MONSTER” percilot?

Roxy arrived half an hour after Martin called her, finding James a teary-eyed mess on the couch in the sitting room. Martin was standing over him, arms crossed, a perplexed expression on his face.

“I didn’t know who to call,” Martin admitted, once he heard her footsteps in the hall. He turned to her, exasperated. “He’s been like this for an hour now.”

“Well, what happened?” she asked.

“We were watching a Christmas movie, and he got all wrapped up in it,” Martin explained as she got one of the soft and fuzzy blankets from the hallway linen closet and draped it over James. He sniffled, his eyes red, but he reached out and patted her hand.

“Which movie was it?” Roxy frowned.

“Well, he wanted to watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_. He said he’s never seen it, which I find improbable since he owns—”

“You let him watch it?” Roxy asked. Martin blinked, surprised by the sharpness of her tone and the intensity of her gaze.

“Well, yes.” Martin shrugged. “I didn’t see why not.”

“No one told you,” she breathed. “Oh god. There’s been a moratorium on that movie in the Spencer family ever since Uncle James watched _Old Yeller_ and was inconsolable for weeks.”

“Really?” Martin’s brows shot towards his hairline. “I would have thought with the last Kingsman test that shooting a dog would be the last thing to wreck him.”

Roxy’s warning glance didn’t stop the words falling out of Martin’s mouth, because James looked up at him in horror.

“You shot your dog?” he asked.

Martin’s mouth snapped shut. He’d forgotten that James’s trial had been cut short in Mosul, when Lee Unwin had leapt on the grenade that had saved the other three.

“It was…it was a blank,” Martin said. “You needn’t worry. I inspected the firearm thoroughly before I fired.”

“Jesus Christ,” Roxy muttered as James gave an indignant noise and rose to stamp into the bedroom, the blanket around his shoulders like a tatty cape. The door slammed shut, and Martin winced.

“If I’d have known he’d be that upset about a knock-off version of _A Christmas Carol_ , I’d have suggested we watch _Die Hard_ again,” Martin muttered, running a hand through his dark hair.

Roxy’s offended look just meant he had two Spencers to console instead of the one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was really hard considering I always fall asleep during the film in question. I don't think I've seen it all the way through once.


	6. It Wouldn't Be Right (Merlahad, pre TSS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>         _All in my head ended up in my heart
>     where it didn't belong, but we got so far
>     I tried to let go, but you're holding on tight
>     and I'd like to hurt you, but it wouldn't be right_
>       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-absorbed-pretty-boy said: okay christmas merlahad prompt incoming! harry has a mission on the 24th and Merlin is handling him. It's all really exhausting and frustrating but he gets it done and makes his way back to England. When he arrives at HQ in the early hours of the 25th Merlin is still about and waiting for him and they celebrate a tiny little christmas together in merlin's lab because they both don't have anyone to go home to. they are both tired and emotional...who knows what could happen?

**[German Airspace, December 24 th, 1989]**

“That’s the last of it,” Harry said, placing the microfiche into its protective case. He closed the lid, glancing up at Merlin on the broadcast screen. A new addition to the jets by the man he was currently talking to, the screens allowed for face to face contact, as well as the display of blueprints and other documents. It had proven invaluable already.

“Good work, Galahad. I’ll see it filed properly on Boxing Day,” Merlin said.

“Nice to know even workaholics take Christmas off,” Harry said. He was on his way home, the mission wrapped up (pun certainly not intended) late on Christmas Eve and the jet ferrying him back to London. He reached for the glass of scotch he’d poured after takeoff, his mission completed and that left him with one thing, and one thing only to do.

Get through the day.

Christmas was a difficult time of year for Harry, especially now. He usually spent it at least slightly drunk, as was the proper pastime of all repressed English gentlemen, but it was getting old, rather quickly.

Merlin said something and Harry realized he hadn’t heard a word.

“Sorry?” he said, lowering the glass from his lips.

“I said you should enjoy the holiday. It’s rare you get them off.” Merlin was typing, Harry could hear the click of keys over the connection. He wasn’t looking at Harry, focusing on what he had to finish. “I’m sure Morgana would like to see you before you do, however. She’s waiting for you before you’re completely through.”

“Of course,” Harry said. He had a nasty slice on the meat of his right forearm, something he’d stitched together clumsily, but of course Morgana would like to see him. “I’ll pop ‘round medical and see her before I leave the Estate.”

“Very good,” Merlin said. He inhaled, and reached for the screen, which meant he was about to toggle their connection off. Harry dug for one last thing to say, something to breach the gap between them, the chasm wide and only expanding since Rhodes.

“Happy Christmas, Merlin,” he blurted, and immediately felt like a fool. Merlin froze, staring at him, something flickering across his face before he carefully shuttered his reaction.

“…Happy Christmas, Galahad.” The connection dropped, and Harry was alone.

* * *

Morgana redid his stitches, and now his arm was neatly wrapped and in a sling across his chest, his suit jacket draped over that shoulder instead of being worn properly. She’d accepted his Christmas sherry with good grace, grumbling that she was just glad he hadn’t gotten himself more torn to pieces. He’d kissed her cheek and she’d swatted at him as he made his escape.

He was hardly tipsy, so he couldn’t blame the glass of scotch he’d sipped when his feet took him to the door that led down and into the bowels of the estate, towards Central. Rather, it was habit that led him there, wanting to see the man at the helm of Kingsman’s technological prowess.

Merlin didn’t much welcome his interruptions these days, and he paused, knowing the cameras could see him. That Merlin could see him. But the question was—was Merlin even looking?

Harry placed his hand against the panel that would allow him access to the elevator. It was silly, standing in the sprawling estate’s pantry, after all. No sense in hovering.

It got cooler as he descended, the below ground levels air conditioned to keep the servers cool. Harry suppressed a shiver. It had been snowing outside, and the chill was noticeable to him. Still, better cool than hot, especially in the case of the level where Merlin worked. Harry passed by block after block of server racks, the low hum of the computers counterpoint to his own breathing.

There weren’t any offices down here save Merlin’s own, and the workshops here were private and belonged to the Kingsman quartermaster as well. They were farther down below the earth than any of the other Kingsman levels, and Merlin had taken great pains to secure the offices from all and sundry. The only ones he didn’t keep out were Harry, Morgana, Thomas, and—out of a blunt practicality and a need to keep his position—Arthur.  He’d burrowed into the rock beneath the estate like a vole once Arthur had given the go-ahead, as though to hide himself away from everyone on earth.

Including Harry.

Harry knew he’d still be there, simply because he knew Merlin. The man was doggedly determined, hard working to a fault, and almost obsessive in his need for perfection. There was always some project or another to tinker with, and Harry more often than not had found Merlin at work, tepid tea beside his hand as he sketched blueprints, put together prototypes, or coded a new function into the Kingsman tech.

He wondered why Merlin had never revoked his access down here. Surely he had considered it; Merlin was the master of his domain, and after Rhodes, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want Harry around. The thought flitting across his mind was enough to make the ball of misery in his chest throb, and he shoved it away, lifting his left hand and placing it against the access panel.

The pad thrummed beneath his hand, and he could hear the click as the heavy electromagnets holding the door closed released. Harry opened the door to find Merlin mid-way into pouring a drink, paused over the glass as Harry entered, the door closing behind him without a sound.

“You’re still here,” Merlin said, as though it were a foregone conclusion that Galahad should have whisked himself off home to his empty flat and drunk himself into a stupor by now. (Mister Pickle was currently enjoying time with his mother. Since his father had passed, she’d doted on the little terrier whenever Harry needed to leave town for work.)

“So are you,” Harry said. He offered Merlin a one-shouldered shrug. “I suppose this counts as a Christmas miracle.”

“Don’t be flippant,” Merlin snapped, then caught himself. His brows knit and he set the bottle of whisky to the side, capping it. “Apologies, Galahad. Is there something I can do for you?”

 _You can call me by my name, like you used to._ “Er, no. I was popping by to…drop off a gift.”

“A gift?” Merlin seemed surprised. “I didn’t—that is, I—”

“I don’t expect reciprocation,” Harry said, his throat tightening regardless. “I just…wanted you to have this.”

He held up the gift, a wrapped box set of Jules Verne, done in leather and gold leaf. Merlin had always loved science fiction, and as a man working to make science fiction science fact…well. The old masters would always have something new to show him.

He set the parcel on the edge of Merlin’s desk, retreating back towards the door. Everything about Merlin screamed that he didn’t want Harry near, that he wasn’t welcome—everything that was anathema to Harry about being around Merlin. There was a chasm of sorrow there that he couldn’t cross. Hurt, regret, things that should have been said but weren’t, things that were spoken that were better left unsaid.

Merlin frowned at the small parcel, wrapped in colorful Christmas paper and decorated with a tasteful bow. “What is it?”

“A Christmas gift,” Harry said. “More than that, I couldn’t say.”

“Cheeky.” Merlin snorted softly. “…thank you.”

It was more civil than they’d been outside of official missions in nearly a year. It might even be looked upon like progress.

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, just as softly. “Happy Christmas, Merlin.”

“Happy Christmas, Harry.” Merlin lifted his glass to him, but the silence between them stretched on. If Harry had been angling for an invitation to stay, he wasn’t going to get it; strangely, he hadn’t been. He’d just been there to bring Merlin something that might please him.

Harry fled, both to save his pride and preserve the fragile peace between them.

* * *

His townhome was just as cold and dark as predicted. He flicked on the hallway lights, setting his carryon next to the door. He’d see to it sometime before the new year. For now, he was restless, and there was nothing open that would appease his restlessness.

Harry could pace his flat like an animal, but it was hardly going to solve anything. Perhaps another drink and then bed, before his mother could ring him in the morning and demand to know why he wasn’t coming over for Christmas dinner.

He hung up his coat, scarf, and gloves, settling them at their places on the hooks by the door, and then deposited his keys in the bowl on the table nearby. He toed out of his shoes, not bothering to line them up. Instead, he left them haphazard in the hall next to his carryon. The sling had been discarded as soon as he was safely away from Morgana’s watchful gaze, and he slipped off his suit jacket, hanging it on the bannister knob as he passed.

It would keep.

He padded into the study in his stockinged feet, rolling his shirtsleeves up and loosening his tie. His sideboard was small, but selectively stocked, and he wanted to try that Macallan he’d been saving.

He blinked, however, as lights flickered on at his presence. Likely set on a motion timer, a small tree in the corner of his study—that he most certainly hadn’t set up, his townhome was bare of even the smallest scrap of tinsel when he’d left—came to life, multicolored fairy lights and wobbly, almost lopsided decorations shone in shimmery foil reds and greens, with gold dropped here and there.

Harry tilted his head quizzically, almost like Mister Pickle when he was trying to identify if there were mice in the baseboards. Tinny Christmas music went through a slightly off-key rendition of _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ before falling silent.

He flicked on the overhead light, revealing the tree in full. Only about two feet tall, the star was listing to the left, as if someone had fiddled with it until exasperation. There were two wrapped parcels beneath it, both addressed to him.

He should call Central. He should have Merlin scan these before unwrapping them.

He should do a lot of things.

Instead, he carried the parcels to his desk, taking a seat before pulling the larger of the two towards him. Mulishly, he almost welcomed the idea of someone attempting to murder him. It was essentially the story of his life at this point.

He ran his fingers carefully over the smooth paper, patterned in green with gold holly leaves. The ribbon came away as he pulled it, and he slit the paper where it was taped on the sides. A cardboard box was inside, and he lifted the lid.

He found the softest cardigan he’d ever touched, the muted beige making it suitable to pair with almost anything he had in his wardrobe. Large, dark buttons brought it to a vee that would look good against the crisp white of one of his button downs. He ran his hand across it, pulling the neatly folded item from the box and holding it up.

A card fluttered from the middle of the cardigan, landing on the desk. He picked it up.

_Shame on you for not having this checked first. Good thing I beat you to it._

It wasn’t signed, but Harry knew the handwriting. The barest hint of a smile curved his mouth and he carefully refolded the cardigan, placing it to the side. The other gift was a bottle of cognac, one that Harry hadn’t tried. He looked at the amber depths, somehow not eager to get to the bottom of the bottle anymore.

He rose and placed the bottle on the sideboard, next to his Macallan. He cleared the paper and the boxes away, depositing them in the bin beside his desk, and then gathered the cardigan and tucked it beneath his arm.

“…Happy Christmas, Merlin.” He flicked off the lights, heading upstairs to bed.

Perhaps he would take his mother up on Christmas dinner after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this was supposed to be fluffy/smutty, but I've been thinking a lot about post-Rhodes Harry and Merlin. Rhodes really was one of those missions that impacted them very hard, and the effects were a ripple.


	7. Merriment (Merlahad, Percilot, Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That Christmas magic's brought this tale to a very happy ending._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A followup to the previous chapter.

**[December 23 rd, 2017 – Scotland]**

“Christmas Cheer Squad!” James called as he hauled a box into Merlin’s study.

“If I turn around and you’re wearing a tweed miniskirt, I’m leaving.” Merlin snorted, turning his head as Artemis and Apollo broke from their spots at the side of his wheelchair to greet James properly. James only managed to look mildly offended, setting the box on Merlin’s desk and babying the dogs.

“Sorry, I haven’t legs like Harry to be able to pull that off,” he said, rolling his eyes toward the closed adjoining door that marked Arthur’s private study. Things had certainly changed, and for the better, in James’s opinion.

The castle wasn’t nearly finished, with crews below and further afield digging more and more underground as Kingsman burrowed into its new home. Merlin was overseeing the work done and ensuring that all areas of the castle were accessible to him both with and without his wheelchair. Harry had joined him as soon as things were settled in Kentucky; Roxy and Eggsy had joined them soon after, and the last of the agents to retire to their new home were James, Morgana, and Martin – the latter still recovering but doing much better after waking, briefly. He still slept for long stretches, but he was aware.

James counted that a Christmas miracle in and of itself, spending nearly as much time in Percival’s adjoining quarters as he did his own.

Now, however, he and Roxy were currently decorating the finished ‘upper’ levels – the castle and its myriad of rooms that were above ground and needed no repairs save decorating them in Kingsman’s signature style. Armed with tinsel, fresh sprigs of holly and branches of cedar and pine, as well as several boxes full of LED candles that could be left burning without supervision, he and Roxy had been Christmas bombing empty rooms and had just managed to make their way to the occupied rooms.

James was truly in the Christmas spirit, his own spirits raised with Martin’s shift towards recovery.

“What’s all this, then?” Merlin asked, peering into the box. “Don’t tell me you haven’t—”

“Oh, but we have, Merlin,” James said with a laugh. “Nothing wrong with a little holiday spirit.”

“I thought the tree in the downstairs sitting room would suffice,” Merlin said with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” James reached into the box and pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, complete with a ribbon to hang his ambush wherever he pleased. He grinned at Merlin and held it over his own head, giving it a waggle as he lifted his brows at Merlin suggestively.

“Oh, bugger off, James,” Merlin laughed, but he accepted the good-natured kiss to the top of his head as James passed his chair, seeing to the other decorations.

“This office is much nicer than your old one,” James commented as he tied the mistletoe so it hung directly over the doorway to the door that joined it to Harry’s study. He put his hands on his hips and turned around, surveying the room.

Spacious and bright, the walls were a light wood at the bottom half paired with an off white upper wall. Bookshelves lined the wall behind the desk, opposite a reading nook and a large stone fireplace that was currently burning brightly and making the room toasty.

Merlin’s desk was wide and adjustable, a natural oak that lent an air of solidity to the room. The only other real furniture were two squashy armchairs beside the fire, clearly a favorite spot for Merlin and Harry in the evenings.

“It is,” Merlin agreed, gesturing at the window as he nosed through the rest of the box James had brought. “I have a view of the Loch and the training grounds from here.”

“No, it’s not that.” James crossed to the mantel, where a butterfly sat in a frame on proud display, the wonky wing and Harry’s crisp handwriting making it clear it was a gift. “I meant that…it’s much homier.”

“I suppose it is,” Merlin said. He leaned back in his chair, taking in all the knickknacks that finally had a place.

“I like it,” James declared, and pulled out some fresh greenery for the mantel. “I can tell that you do, too. You used to avoid your office if you could.”

“Did I?” Merlin asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Oh, yes,” James said. “You were much more likely to be in Central, or in your workshop.”

“I suppose that’s…true. It was easier to keep an eye on you lot.”

“And easier for us to visit…especially Harry.” James grinned at Merlin’s slightly sour look. “But I like this. It suits you.”

James arranged a couple of the candles on the mantel beside the frames, tying the bases off in red ribbon edged in gold. When he stood back, it was almost the same as a Christmas mantel from the shop, except they didn’t need the constant monitoring of the staff to make sure nothing was set alight.

“Have you decorated Martin’s room yet?” Merlin asked.

“Not yet,” James said, his smile softening. “Roxy and I were saving that for last, so we could be with him when he wakes to take his next dose of medication.”

“Good,” Merlin said. He rose from his wheelchair, the prosthetics making him sway for a moment as they adjusted to his weight, and he strode to where James stood. James had his hands in his pockets, regarding his decorations, so he was surprised when Merlin hauled him in for a hug.

Always a fan of such things, he squeezed the wizard back, his nose tucked in Merlin’s shoulder as they both took a little strength in each other. Merlin backed off first, gripping James’s elbows.

“I’m proud of you both,” he said. “Some of the best men I ever had the privilege to train.”

“Merlin…” James looked away, not sure he wanted to blubber in Merlin’s office.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, though James could hear the smile in Merlin’s voice. “The holidays make me maudlin. You should be getting on, I know Harry hasn’t been decorated yet.”

“He’s out,” James complained. “The office is locked.”

“Not that door,” Merlin said with a grin, pointing at the adjoining door.

“Merlin, you’re the governor,” James said with an answering mischievous grin, scooping up his box and hurrying through the adjoining door.

“I don’t know anything, if he asks,” Merlin called after the retreating tweed dervish.

* * *

“What the _devil_?” Harry was clearly annoyed by James’s decorations, as he soon came through their door to see Merlin working at his desk. “Ah. I see he got you, too.”

“It’s just Christmas decorations, Harry,” Merlin said, chuckling. “He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“I know, but I kept the door locked so he wouldn’t bomb my office with tinsel,” Harry complained. “Did you let him in?”

“No, but I did go to the kitchen to refresh my tea. I might have forgotten to lock my door,” Merlin said, his lips twitching.

“And just what are you grinning at?” Harry asked.

Merlin rose, moving to where Harry stood in their joined doorway, and reached up, cupping his Arthur’s face. Harry lost a lot of his grumpy bluster, instead leaning into Merlin’s hands like a cat.

“You’re standing under the mistletoe,” Merlin murmured, leaning in and pressing his lips to Harry’s. Harry melted, opening his mouth with a pleased noise as one of Merlin’s hands slid to his hair, toying with the short crop at the nape of his neck. Merlin let his tongue slide along Harry’s for a moment, deepening the kiss, until the surge of heat between them was warmer than the banked fire. He pulled back, grinning at Harry’s half-lidded, dreamy expression.

“Any further complaints?” Merlin asked, his hand still cupping the back of Harry’s neck.

“…well, it _is_ tradition,” Harry conceded, leaning in to kiss Merlin again. “Happy Christmas, Merlin.”

One of the happiest, Merlin thought, moving to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. I fixed it. :)


	8. Done Like Dinner (Gen, Pre TSS, Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Spencer is a meddler.

**[December 25 th, 2003]**

“You’re going to scorch it,” James said, peering into the oven. “How long have you been basting it?”

“I’m perfectly capable of cooking a Christmas goose in my own kitchen, James, I’ve done it several times without you hovering.” Harry’s voice held a note of dry sarcasm as he folded over more pastry dough. He was kneading the crusts for more mince pies, and James was being nosy. “Why aren’t you out in the sitting room with the rest of them?”

“I’m afraid Martin didn’t much care for my mistletoe belt buckle.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Harry drawled. “Stop poking at it, you’ll spill it on the burners, and then we’ll have a real issue.”

He brandished a wooden spoon at James, who quite ignored the fact that Harry could disable him seven ways—and that was just from where Harry was standing—to take a spoon and begin basting the goose.

“James—”

“Just a bit, Harry, it’s not going to hurt anything.” James tilted the pan.

Three things happened then in rapid succession:

The fat from the pan splashed onto the gas burners of Harry’s oven, causing a fireball.

Harry kicked James’s feet out from under him, knocking him away from the source of the fireball and saving his hair from a crispy fate.

The kitchen’s smoke alarms blared, the sprinkler systems activating and spraying Harry and James with frigid water as Merlin opened the kitchen door in alarm.

* * *

**[Present Day]**

“Are you sure you have enough butter?” James asked, peering into the oven.

“…I’m perfectly capable of roasting a goose in my own kitchen, James, or have you forgotten?” Harry leveled a one-eyed stare at the former Lancelot, pointing a toasting fork at him. “If you open that oven door, I’ll truss you and serve you with the parsnips.”

James put a hand to his chest, looking offended. “I was just asking.”

“You were just meddling.” Harry sniffed. “If you want to help, come help me with the mince pies. But wash your hands first.”

“Yes, mother,” James said, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder at the bird browning in the oven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James, you ass.


	9. Christmas Eve (Morgana/Lancelot, Pre-TSS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _
>     
>      We'll meet beyond the shore
>     We'll kiss just like before
>     Happy we'll be beyond the sea
>     And never again I'll go sailing
>     
>     
>       _
>     
> 
> _I don't want to need you, 'cause I can't have you. — **Robert Kincaid, The Bridges of Madison County**_

**[The Kingsman Estate – December 24, 1985]**

The air was the kind of cold that you could taste, a sheer and bitter thing biting at his lungs as he bundled up in his wool coat. Thomas exited the estate, though rather than climb into a waiting cab as Harry and Merlin had done, taking separate cabs home to no doubt meet up later, he strode off onto the footpaths that lined the estate with a large basket over his arm.

Thomas had no doubt the boys would be spending the holidays together, he looked the other way, but he was hardly stupid—and neither was Arthur, which is why Galahad and Merlin were playing things safe. He approved of their discretion, at least, taking some of his own as he trudged through the snow. While the paths into the woods weren’t marked, he knew them well; he’d strolled these grounds more often than he cared to admit, and he had gone this way more times than the others, though not even torture would drag that admission out of him, for Arthur had eyes and ears everywhere.

It was late, getting close to nine as he walked, and a full, fat moon rose from behind the looming silhouette of the estate at his back, painting the entire world around him in dazzling pale whites and stark shadows. His breath left him in a plume of fog, and he waded through the snow in places, the softer drifts beneath the trees making the going slower.

Still, it would be worth it.

He finally caught sight of his target, a little cottage at the very edge of the property, once a woodcutter’s hut but repurposed to house some essential staff. There were several such dotted about the estate, though they were separated enough to give them privacy. While most went home to their families at the end of the day, there were some that needed to be on site at all times, in case a Knight needed assistance or Arthur had a task.

Now, however, he approached the cottage and saw the little fairy lights that dotted the wreath in the window. A small lamp was lit below it, and he crunched out of the drifts and onto the kept path, shaking snow from his trousers and his wellingtons. The heavy wool was damp, and it was chill against his skin. The cold had eaten into his bones as he walked; a curse of getting old, perhaps, but it didn’t stop him from making his way up the path and to the door.

His rap didn’t echo in the forest; the freshly fallen snow muted the sound of his knuckles against the wood, and he stood, shivering, as he waited. There was the clack of the locks being thrown, and the door opened to the rounded moon of a face peering out, a tartan dressing gown pulled taut over her chest. Her hair tumbled about her face, coming loose from her tie, and if his hands hadn’t been like ice he’d have swept it back from her forehead.

“Lancelot?” Morgana said, opening the door wider and taking in his damp and sorry state. “What is it—is someone injured? Galahad—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said, swift to reassure her. Of course she would think the worst; not much else would bring Thomas to her door in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. He’d told himself he’d stop this, end it, this gnawing in his bones that only quieted when she was near, but he hadn’t been able to quell it yet. “I—”

“My god, you’re going to turn blue out here,” she said, with a start. She stepped back, out of the doorway. “Come inside.”

He obliged her, knocking the rest of the snow from his boots and setting the basket down inside. The cottage was warm, a crackling fire in the hearth, a squashy armchair with a small table beside it; a book sat marked on the table beside a glass of wine. Thomas pulled off his coat and gloves, his hat coming next as he hung up his gear. She moved to the kitchen, setting the kettle on the hob and lighting it with a match before she headed deeper into the little cottage.

She returned in short order with a towel and a set of clothes that would be baggy on her but would fit him well enough.

“Come on, now, let’s have those wet things,” she said. “I’ll put them over the radiator to dry.”

He hesitated, and she cocked a brow at him, absolutely unimpressed.

“I’ve seen you much worse than that,” she said, tossing him the sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. “You’re not catching your death in my cottage, what kind of doctor would I be?”

Thomas cleared his throat and made the universal hand gesture for ‘turn around’. She huffed and turned her back, her nightgown and robe swishing imperiously with the movement. He changed slowly, his numb fingers finally warming inside and he stepped over to the radiator himself to lay them out. She snorted, and he didn’t know whether she was laughing at the action itself or how the sweats rode up his ankles, but she was interrupted by the kettle’s shrill cry and she went to go make him up a cup of tea.

Bless her, he thought, sinking down onto the little loveseat that was all the other furniture that the little sitting room could hold. It was tiny, but cozy, plenty big enough for Morgana’s needs with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen to go with the small sitting room. He rose after a moment, his teeth chattering a little, to fetch his basket.

“Sit down, I’ll get it,” she scolded him. “Stubborn man. Go sit by the fire.”

He paused, then relented, allowing her to fuss over him. Lucy brought him a hot mug of tea, earl grey with milk. He sipped, closing his eyes as the hot drink warmed him up some, leaching the heat from the cup with his fingers wrapped around it. She brought the basket and set it by the love seat with a little thump, and then the swish of fabric heralded one of her endless supply of tatty quilts being draped over his shoulder.

“Why not take a cab?” she asked. There were actual driveways to the cottages, cleared and connected to the local highways via a private entrance.

It was his turn to lift his brow at her. “Is there a driver in the fleet that you’d trust to not go running to Arthur?”

She frowned, high spots of color rising in her cheeks as she looked away from his gaze. “You could just be stopping by to wish me a Happy Christmas. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It doesn’t, and he’d still extrapolate meaning from nowhere, so I’d like there to be something to be blamed for, thank you kindly.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Besides, I brought you something from Morocco.”

“Why not give it to me last week, when you returned, then?” she asked, moving to sit beside him on the love seat. He adjusted, holding out his arms to her, and she sighed and burrowed in close, letting him wrap the blanket around the both of them. “You are a ridiculous man.”

“Because it wouldn’t have been for Christmas if I had, and besides, you had Kay in medical up until the twentieth.” He pressed his nose to the crown of her head, slowly warming with the tea and the woman in his arms. “And you know I do love my eccentricities.”

“One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed doing these sorts of ridiculous stunts to get to me,” she said, though her voice was barely audible over the crackle of logs in the fireplace. She said it so quietly, he wondered if she feared bringing it into reality by saying so.

“Lucy, I can think of no better way to shuffle off this mortal coil,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. “Wrapped in the charms of a beautiful woman.”

“You’re an old fool,” she said, though there was no bite to her words, only fondness. She tilted her head, and the fire lit her profile, turning her dark hair molten with its light. Lucy leaned up, and the first press of her lips against his made him sigh softly, the burdens of outside melting away as easily as the snow did.

She opened to him, and he drank his fill, kissing her until she was mussed and drowsy looking, her gaze half-lidded and her lips plump from his attention. He nibbled her lower lip, and she laughed.

“Do you want your gift?” he asked.

“Which one?” she replied, moving to sit more snugly in his lap. He wrapped an arm around her waist and fished out the small wrapped box from the basket. She took it, tugging the gold ribbon free and lifting the red lid of the box. “Oh, Thomas.”

He’d seen the little bauble in a shop as he’d spent one more day in Marrakesh before heading home. A small silver phial sat on a long silver chain, ornate scrollwork decorating the lid that was set with tiny precious tourmaline in green and fire agates in a deep red shot with green streaks. A larger opal dotted the top of the phial, a blue cabochon that made it less ostentation and more practical, giving one a place to grip the top. There was a second, smaller chain that connected the lid to the phial and would keep it from getting lost. It was a simple piece, but Lucy had never wanted for adornment—nor had she ever expressed an interest in expensive jewelry or other custom.

It was interesting, finding things he thought she might like and either presenting them himself or leaving them for her to discover. A bad habit, perhaps, given the political climate of Kingsman and his own words to his protégé in regards to relationships, but Thomas was getting older, and rather than the loneliness stretching out before him…

He sidestepped. Quietly, discretely, and with a hypocrisy that would send Galahad into a frenzy, Thomas returned, over and over, as often as he could to the little cottage at the edge of the property and the softness of the woman in his arms.

She tilted her head, her unbound hair falling in a wave across her chest as she moved it aside so he could fasten the chain about her neck. He did so, brushing the pads of his fingers across the softness of her neck, letting his mouth trail behind it and making her shiver. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, and he melted against her, drawing her close and holding her.

“I haven’t wrapped yours,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I’ve already got mine,” he rumbled back. “Anything else would just be ostentatious.”

“You _are_ a ridiculous man, Thomas Brampton,” she said.

He just leaned up and kissed her fond, exasperated smile off her face.

* * *

**[Scotland – Present Day]**

Morgana said her goodnights and pressed kisses to each forehead in turn. It was her right as the matriarch of this shoddy little clan that Kingsman had found itself. No one was left save the ones who fought the bitterest fights to claw back – some from the brink of death. Harry, Merlin, James and Martin, along with the newest, and youngest, Knights. Roxanne and Eggsy were both recovering as well, the strain of their missions showing in tired eyes. It was time for a break.

The order of things had changed as well, with the restructuring. Their new Arthur was on his throne, his wizard by his side at long last.

She was proud. They had all won the right to rest and relax this Christmas, and it would be a cold day in hell before she denied them that; it was hard enough to get some of them to sit still as it was.

The dogs had all trailed behind her as she made her way to her rooms in the castle; no longer feeling the need to separate herself from Kingsman, to not allow Arthur to have easy access to her—she felt safe within these walls, and she moved down the hall with a large enough escort that from the outside might look ridiculous. The dogs would return to their own masters soon, but it had become such a tradition that it happened out of habit now.

She unlocked her rooms, turning to give each of the dogs their good nights, and soft orders to return to their masters. Only Mister Gherkin remained, still too young and in training, and she reasoned that Harry would be by soon enough to fetch his wayward pup. She sat, unbinding her hair and brushing it, with the pup laying at her feet.

The soft knock at her door ten minutes later made her smile as she rose. Late as ever.

She opened the door to find Harry, tall and straight-backed, waiting for her. The sight of him, eyepatch or blackened spectacles included, never failed to bring her a warmth in her chest. There had been something cold there when the news from Kentucky had been spread, that the greatest of them was gone. Harry had cultivated not only a sense of security for Kingsman – he had a reputation for tact and the devil’s own luck, both of which were necessary in their business – but he had also been unusually earnest with her.

She loved this man like he was her own son, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it.

“I see you’ve come for your wayward charge,” she said. She turned, lifting Mister Gherkin from where the little cairn terrier had fallen asleep on the duvet and handed him to Harry, who cradled the pup in his large hands like a child. That thought, that her boys would make excellent fathers in another life, flitted across her mind.

Not just Harry, but Merlin, James, and Martin. All of them had skills to bring to that table, all of them denied because of the life they lived. She’d learned long ago to push those thoughts away, however. There was nobility here, though not without its share of sorrow. Sacrifice was a term that Kingsman knew well; only in the last year had they begun to change that tone.

“Thank you, mum,” he said, his smile soft and fond as he pressed his lips to her cheek. “Doesn’t yet know enough to come back on his own.”

“Much like his owner,” she chided, only making his smile widen. “But you grew out of it, so there’s hope for him as well.”

“Better late than never,” Harry murmured. “Are you off to bed?”

“Soon,” she said. “I’m sure your husband will be looking for you, soon.”

Harry’s gaze softened at the mention of Merlin. “Soon. Not yet, though.”

He meant both the marriage and the tech wizard looking for him. She reached up and patted his cheek.

“Then off you hop. I need to finish getting ready for bed and get my beauty rest, if I’m going to be at all presentable on Christmas Day.”

“You’re always radiant, mum,” he said, his smile boyish and charming and dropping years off his face like nothing else could. For a moment, she could see echoes of Thomas in him, in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself.

But not the way he loved. No. Harry Hart was as reserved as Thomas, just as private, but there was so much more to him, spilling over like a cup filled to the brim and then running over. It showed in the men and women he gathered to him, sharing that emotion and binding them to him – not out of duty, but out of love.

Thomas would be so proud of their new Arthur, even if he didn’t agree with some of his methods.

“You’re a ridiculous man, Harry Hart,” she said, her voice quiet and thick. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he murmured, allowing her to squeeze his hand and then shoo him out the door. “Goodnight.”

She closed the door and turned away, blinking back the prickle of tears in her eyes. She moved to her nightstand, picking up the small picture frame and running her fingers over the glass that separated her from the lines of Thomas’s face, captured only in photographs now.

The moon wasn’t full tonight, but it was enough to send a sliver of light dancing through the curtains, illuminating her slice of the room. Thomas’s expression was neutral, never the sly smile he wore, or even the frown he got when he was concentrating.

It was enough.

“You would lecture him,” she said softly. “But you know I haven’t the heart for it. It’s…time, I think, long past, to let them have this.”

She smiled, setting the frame down and sitting on the bed, tilting her head to the side to undo the silver chain of her pendant. She coiled the chain in her palm and set it on her nightstand.

“Happy Christmas, my darling.”

Outside, the moon drifted behind a cloud, and snow began to fall, coating the grounds in white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never said they never got together, did I?
> 
> No, I don't believe I did.
> 
> :)
> 
> Merry Christmas, Constant Readers.


End file.
